


Heaven Is Closer Now

by Magicsam17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, Car Accidents, Chuck is God, Depression, Heavy Angst, If You Squint - Freeform, Impala, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Sad Ending, Schizophrenia, Writer Chuck Shurley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magicsam17/pseuds/Magicsam17
Summary: Seven years. That's how long I can remember wasting away. And I just can't do it anymore, I can't put purpose where there never will be any. So for whoever finds me: I think my name is Dean Winchester, and I'm sorry. For just about everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And, as always, I do not own any of the characters.

     He woke to the sound of his own labored panting. Everything seemed to echo now, in the endless empty hallways and storage rooms that made up his home. Even when he slept in their rooms, the echoing never stopped. His doctor said it was just a symptom of his broken mind, but the doctor seemed to say that a lot. Whenever he came to check on him(what was left to check on? He was as empty as the place he called home), he said his memory was failing, or that his mood swings were getting worse. Every time it was something different, and the doctor had to know that he had stopped listening a long time ago. But if he did, he didn’t seem to care.  
✹  
     The first time that the doctor had seen him was 7 years ago. He never forgot that visit, never forgot it even when he forgot his brother’s own name. That first time he had told him he was a danger. With a diagnosis that extreme, he said, he was bound to be. Bipolar depression, suicidal tendencies, memory loss, PTSD, schizophrenia, the list was longer than the list of people he’d ever saved, but nothing could ever compare to the list of people he’d let down, the people he’d gotten killed. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t try to help. Maybe if he stayed out of the game, the monsters would get bored and go somewhere else to play.  
✹  
     As the years went by, the nightmares got worse. Then he started forgetting to clean Baby and why he looked happy in those photos on the kitchen wall. Why did he look happy? He couldn’t remember what it was like to feel happy. And why did he live in such a big house? It didn’t make sense for only one person. But he did remember he slept in two rooms because one felt more like home than the one that was obviously his did.  
✹  
     Four years after meeting with the doctor, he rarely had it in him to buy the things he needed to live. A lot of the time he would end up sitting in the car wondering why he had walked outside in the first place. So people from town took pity on him, though he didn't know it. He didn't know much of anything now. He had long since forgotten the way he used to tease the other, taller, man about cutting his too-long hair. Or how he would be captivated by the cerulean eyes that for so long had kept him safe. He was slowly forgetting, but maybe that was his mind’s way of keeping him safe. If he didn’t remember them, maybe they were never there in the first place.  
✹  
     When he looked in the mirror, or when the rare visitor would ask for Dean Winchester, it took him longer and longer to remember that was him. Until he didn't remember at all.  
✹  
     The accident had to have been a fluke. A part missing from the beat-up ’63 Chevy, or a rough patch or road. That’s what he tried to convince himself was the cause when he all but flew to the hospital. It wasn't the way they were supposed to go. No glory, no guns blazing. Just t-boned car a few miles out from the middle of nowhere. Cass wasn’t supposed to be smashed by the oncoming car, and Sam definitely wasn’t supposed to be banged against the tree and the car like a ping-pong ball. If only Dean had gone with them, if only he hadn’t insisted that they were too low on pie(they had one and a half sitting in the fridge), and that the beer could be restocked even though they had two six packs, still enough to last them another few days. It was his own damn fault, and now they had to pay for it. But he still couldn’t help thinking how unfair it was that he had to be the one to unplug his brother. His own goddamned brother, for Christ’s sake. But it also tore him in two that he never got to say good bye to Cass. He had died almost instantly, the only hint that he was there a fragment of his too-big coat flapping in the midday wind.  
✹  
     Anger. That was all that he felt for a long time. Angry at the world. Angry at his brother. Angry at his boyfriend. Angry at Chuck. Angry at the car. Angry at himself, for not being there when they needed him the most. For being the coward that he was. For breaking the promise to his brother that he had held on to for so long.  
✹  
     The names slipped away like how the angels fell. Slowly at first, almost poetically, then all at once. And there was nothing pretty or romantic about how he forgot himself. It gave him bruises and headaches, cuts and scrapes. Countless days wasted wandering around the bomb shelter(or was it a bunker? He wasn’t quite sure anymore), wondering where the hell he was and who the hell he is.  
✹  
     A kind lady would stop by occasionally, sometimes with her daughters. She helped him and didn’t ask questions like everyone else did. Dean liked to listen to her stories of monsters and men. She told him most often of her work as a sherif, but sometimes, on bad days, she would tell him about three ordinary men who were extraordinary heroes. The monsters they slew were the beasts of legend, and the choices they had to make made everyday chores look like a day in the park. She seemed to believe the tales she told, so he did too.  
As Dean watched her daughters grow, he also witnessed her growing more and more weak. For a little while he wondered if her daughters were draining her strength to grow their own, like some of the monsters she had told him about. However, he soon dismissed the idea, because he was fading just as fast, and there was no-one there to take his strength. Even if it was true, he knew she would let them do it. She loved them with all her heart, and nothing could change that. He was there when the last of the gleam in her eye and the sass in her step vanished. He was there as her visits faded and her health declined. Soon he was one of the few who helped the ghost along, two kindred spirits working together through it all.  
At her funeral, Dean didn’t cry. He knew he should, but he had a greater knowledge of the fact that everyone who had stood by him was slipping though his fingers like shards of glass in a storm. Hard and jagged, leaving him bloody and torn, with no one to pick up the pieces.  
Watching from afar, he witnessed two people say their final goodbyes. They could not have been any more different, yet were drawn together in grief. The man had a long black coat and slacks of the same color. The older woman had a long dress that was as stoic as as her tear stained face. As Dean listened in on their conversation, he could only guess how well they knew her.  
Jody, thought Dean as he walked away from their nostalgia filled conversation, sounds like a nice lady. Wish I could have met her.  
✹  
     Today was a special day. He couldn’t remember why, he just could feel it in his bones. Like the instinct that tells you fire will burn and that the dark is a scary place. Because of this, he lays down ten white roses. Red was too happy of a color.  
✹  
     If he was still here today, he could justify why he did it. Why he wanted, so desperately, to be in the arms of the ones he loved again. The world is too cold to people with nobody to go home to. And sometimes, they are too cold to themselves. Dean would tell you that the world didn't need him anymore, now that Sam and Cass were gone. They were a package deal. But he is wrong. What the world needed was for them to survive, for them to keep the world from burning.  
     No-one can ever begin to comprehend Dean’s pain, and no-one will ever come close to the amount he suffered. He deserved to decide where to end his story. After all he has done, after all he has given us, that is the least we could have given him in return. If it will put your weary mind to rest, I can tell you that he is happy. He is happier now that he ever has been in his long and lonely life. This is where, after all these years, his story ends. Their story. The Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and Cass. Team Free Will, who rebelled and fought and gave hope to those who didn’t know how to. To those hunters who left their legacy as empty beer cans and a car that never seems to age, may your feet serve you well. And as somebody close to me once said, "Adios, bitches."

                                                                                                                          The end.

                                                                                                                             ~C.E.

**Author's Note:**

> Sad stories seem to be the only kind I can write *sigh*. But can anyone spot the Panic! At The Disco reference? First fic though, so comments are welcome!


End file.
